


Dry Drowning

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Series: Dry Drowning [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Damian does a thing and his brothers freak out, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, drowning references, even the ones that don't like him in the moment, set during Bruce's "death"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:17:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: Damian didn’t tell anyone because it was nothing. A momentary lapse in attention. A foolish mistake. He rectified his error before anyone even noticed, so what was the point in bringing it up? Batman didn’t need to know.





	Dry Drowning

Damian didn’t tell anyone because it was nothing. A momentary lapse in attention. A foolish mistake. He rectified his error before anyone even noticed, so what was the point in bringing it up? Batman didn’t need to know.

Damian didn’t tell anyone because he was embarrassed. To be knocked into Gotham Harbor was poor form. To be knocked in by a low-level criminal who wasn’t even focused on you was mortifying. It was his own fault for not paying attention. For letting an errant elbow clock him upside the head and send him tumbling off the docks into the dark water below. For being stunned enough by the hit that it took several lung-bursting seconds before he could orient himself and swim to the surface. Drake would never let him hear the end of it.

Damian didn’t tell anyone because he was afraid. The voices that still guided him were his mother, his grandfather. It was them that told him that he was a prince, heir to two thrones, and a disgrace to both. He was inattentive, lax, unskilled. Only Grayson’s own inattentiveness and tender heart were what kept him in Gotham now that Bruce Wayne was dead, but one more careless mistake would be all it took to tax even Grayson’s unfathomable patience. So Damian pulled himself out of the Harbor onto the rain-soaked dock and flung himself back into the fight without a word or a pause. He would not be a discredit to his father’s name.

* * *

It started with a cough.

The fall into the harbor had been hours ago. It had happened near the start of the night, and the hours since had been filled with too many thwarted muggings, botched robberies, and interrupted fistfights to count. Yet Damian still couldn’t get the sensation of phlegm off the back of his throat, as if a liquid mass still clung to his uvula. But to have a coughing fit—or worse, an episode of vomiting—mid-fight would be inexcusable. So Damian kept trying to clear his throat between flips and blows. He would cough deep in his mouth, like an asthmatic old man harrumphing between snores, but only when the rest of the team wasn’t in earshot. He would duck aside to try to hack up whatever was in him, then throw himself back in to fight at Grayson’s side.

The effort made him irritable. Damian knew the others found him unpleasant on a normal day, and he told himself that he didn’t care. Al Ghuls didn’t have a use for white lies and discussions of feelings. But Damian tried, sometimes, even if the others didn’t recognize his attempts. He abandoned those attempts tonight, words curt and stinging, attitude surly, tone bordering on flagrantly disrespectful, even to Grayson.

How could he use the unnecessary words to cushion their feelings when he was afraid to speak? The fewer words he used, the less likely he would be interrupted by a cough. How could he stand at ease and focus on conforming to their standards of behavior when his chest ached from holding his breath? Better to pull away, to retreat, to hunch his shoulders and tighten his jaw. He knew he was disappointing Grayson, but he couldn’t see another way.

It was a puzzle, and Damian hated puzzles he couldn’t solve. So he snipped and snarled and tried to ignore Grayson’s confused looks and Drake’s sneers and was grateful when the night finally settled and the roar of the Batmobile’s engines and the crash of the rain drowned out the noises in the back of his throat.

“Homework, then bed,” Grayson commanded as he pulled himself out of the Batmobile. “Both of you. It’s been a long night and you both need your rest.”

Damian bit back a groan as he left the car and headed toward the supply cabinet. Homework was, as Brown would say, “the worst.” Not only did he have to sit in a classroom with butt-scratching Neanderthals for six hours a day listening to teachers drone on about things he either didn’t care about or already knew, but _then_ he was required to regurgitate these facts back on his own time. And often he would turn in work he knew to be correct only to have it marked off with inane phrases like “show your work” and “cite your sources,” when everything written was so obvious even _Todd_ could figure it out. School in general was “the pits” (a Todd phrase, and one Damian found most apt, having had his face locked into that particular region of Todd’s anatomy once or twice.) Homework was just the greyed deodorant clump that crowned the whole smelly mess.

Damian plucked the adhesive remover from the cabinet and carefully began removing his domino mask. He just wanted to get over whatever Industrial Age educational torture awaited for him in his homework packet and go to bed.

“Here.” Grayson’s shadow fell over the boy, then he knelt and reached for the remover in Damian’s hand. “Let me help.”

Damian jerked backward and out of reach. “I can do it myself,” he bit out, scowl deepening as a small cough followed the words.

Grayson didn’t try a second time, but he didn’t move away. Instead, his head tipped sideways like the bird whose name he had originally borne as he studied Damian. His dark hair stuck up wildly, ends waving in the artificial breeze of the Cave now that the strands were free of the sweaty cowl. He looked ridiculous, and Damian stifled an urge to press them down. Instead, his gaze skittered away from Grayson’s, and he pivoted to deflect some of the man’s attention as he worked on his mask.

“You catching a cold, baby bird?” Grayson asked.

“No.”

Grayson reached to feel his forehead, and Damian jerked away again. “Stop it. I’m not ill.”

“Robin.”

Damian’s spine stiffened at Batman’s command. He hated the way his body responded as if it were Grandfather giving the order. He hated the way his heart stuttered. He hated how his first instinct was never to disobey.

Slowly, Damian turned back to his brother and presented his face. Grayson’s hand, cool and calloused, pressed against his forehead. Damian kept his gaze on a fixed point at the far end of the Cave.

“No fever,” Grayson finally announced, his blue eyes softening as he ruffled Damian’s hair.

“Told you,” Damian muttered. He pulled back and removed the rest of the adhesive, freeing his face from the domino.

“Still,” Grayson continued, as if Damian hadn’t spoken, “you’re soaked, kiddo. Even if you don’t have a cold now, you’ll get one in that uniform. Go get changed before you start your homework.”

Damian considered heading back to the table in full uniform anyways. The command was said in Grayson’s voice, not Batman’s, which meant it could be disobeyed without making his insides quiver. He wanted that feeling, that illicit satisfaction. But the only thing worse than homework was homework done in soggy underwear, and Damian wanted Gotham Harbor off his skin.

Damian nodded, but before he could turn on heel, Grayson’s hand reached out again, this time to gently squeeze his shoulder. 

“You did good tonight, Dames. You fought hard and worked well with the team, even though I know you prefer to run off on your own. I’m proud of you.”

Grayson released his shoulder and strode away to speak with Drake, who was clicking obsessively through files on the Cave’s computer. Damian watched him go for a moment, pleasure and guilt roiling his stomach. The praise felt... good. Grayson’s appreciation was never hard-won the way Mother’s had been, but that didn’t make the approval any less true. Showing Grayson that he was a worthy Robin was important to Damian, for many reasons, some less quantifiable than others. And as foolish as it felt sometimes to coordinate with Drake and the occasional Todd in the field instead of taking matters into his own more than capable hands, Damian had truly tried to consider their movements and work in tandem with them. It pleased him that Grayson had noticed. But how earned was the praise for his efforts if he couldn’t keep himself on dry land?

Damian shook his head as he strode toward the changing area. His footsteps were as assassin-silent as ever, but his coughs echoed through the cavernous space, and he could feel Grayson’s eyes on his back. _Get yourself under control, fool._

In the back, Damian closed the door to the bathroom, peeling his uniform off as he walked, and stepped into the shower. He had hoped the steam would loosen whatever was strangling his lungs, but the air only felt muggy and oppressive, the spray against his skin slick and unpleasant instead of cleansing. His coughs echoed too much against the tile. It felt nice to scrub the grime of Gotham off his body, but he kept the shower short.

Once out and dried, Damian opened the armoire opposite the shower. Each member of the team kept several sets of clothes, each carefully folded and arranged by Pennyworth, in order to maintain the separation between upstairs and downstairs life. Drake had often mocked Damian for his insistence of dressing like a mini Bruce, even if only for the short trip from the Cave to his bed. Damian thought dressing like the heir to the Wayne empire was a requirement, and to think otherwise only showed how much more suitable he was.

But now there was no Father to imitate. No one to impress. Grayson, in his grey sweatpants and oversized college sweaters, wouldn’t care or even notice what Damian wore. And though Damian would never admit it, right now he wanted the comfort of soft and loose over the reassurance of tailored and purposeful. So he pulled on underwear and chose the rarely worn pajama set from the drawer. Drake would think it funny to see him festooned with the symbol of an anthropomorphized rodent, but all Damian cared about was that the fabric was soft and smelled of Alfred’s laundry detergent.

Damian had just pulled one of Grayson’s sweatshirts on over his head when another coughing fit hit, this one longer, harder, and just as unfruitful in easing the ache in his chest. Leaning heavily against the wall, Damian rubbed his knuckles along the seam of his ribcage, trying to ease throbbing in his muscles as his breath wheezed softly in the quiet room.

Maybe he _was_ falling ill after all.

Once he could stand upright again, Damian rejoined the others in the Cave. Or, he rejoined Drake.

“Where is Grayson?” Damian demanded as he took in the empty space.

“Dick got a call. Something about Hood needing backup down in Crime Alley.” 

Drake’s voice was lax, distracted by the stream of information on his screen, and the words came slowly. Damian ground his teeth in frustration.

“Why didn’t he come for me? I could have left with him instead of following behind.” Damian whirled on heel, intent on scraping himself back in to his wet costume and charging after Batman, when Drake’s voice caught hold of him and pulled him to a halt.

“Dick said you’re supposed to stay here and finish your homework. It’s not a big enough deal that the backup needs backup, and he wants you to take it easy. I’m supposed to stay here with you until he comes back.”

“I don’t need to be babysat,” Damian spat.

Drake glanced over just long enough to roll his eyes. “Because I’m thrilled about being the babysitter.”

“I should be out there! Batman shouldn’t be without Robin.”

Raising his voice was like yanking on a rough cord of twine that ran down his throat. It scratched his insides and tugged futilely on the weight in his chest, rousting Damian’s coughs like startled bats streaming into the night.

Over his hacking coughs, he heard Drake say quietly, “Just sit down and get your multiplication tables done, or whatever it is you do. Dick said to stay here, so you’re staying here.”

It was only once Damian had thrown himself into a chair and had hunched over his worksheets that he felt the slightest twinge over his earlier words. He didn’t care if it hurt Drake to hear him talk about Batman and Robin, he told himself. Damian was Robin. As the only blood son of Bruce Wayne, it was only right that he don the domino and fight beside Grayson. Besides, it had been Grayson’s choice as Batman to replace Drake. That wasn’t Damian’s fault. None of it was Damian’s fault.

Though secretly sometimes he wondered, if he had been better, would his mother have brought him to Gotham sooner? Would he have been able to fill the chasm left by Todd’s death? Would Drake have missed what he might never have had? If he had been better, would he have gotten to know his father before Bruce’s death?

_It’s not my fault. I am Robin and Drake is not. And Grayson should have taken me with him._

Damian and Drake didn’t speak again. Drake was lost in his research, data streaming across his blue irises like clouds over the face of the world. Damian worked on his packets, the only sounds in the cave the clatter of the keyboard keys and Damian’s coughs.

It was getting harder to stay awake. Damian found himself drifting, head bobbing painfully between questions about the French Revolution and math equations. His head wasn’t the only thing that hurt. Beyond the weariness that had settled over his bones, the ache in his chest was a constant companion now. He would press his knuckles against his ribs and rub up and down, pausing only when the coughing would come at such a frenzy that he had to pant for breath.

Even Drake had been pulled out of his research stupor, but had wisely held his tongue. Nevertheless, Damian could feel his glances stinging like pebbles against his skin.

It was several hours later when the motorized door opened and the Batmobile roared in, followed closely by a motorcycle. Damian lifted his head and scowled as Red Hood kicked his stand into place and yanked off his helmet. He and Batman must have been communicating via their interlinks on the way, because Todd was already mid-sentence.

“—’s fine, okay? I’ve got it handled, and I don’t need you stomping around in my turf.”

“Hey, you called me, remember?” Grayson levered himself out of the Batmobile and pulled the cowl off for the second time that night. His hair was even more atrociously cowlicked than before.

Damian blinked tiredly at both of them. Normally any appearance by Hood put him on high alert, considering the various wounds the man had inflicted on all of them since his reappearance. Even if Hood had eased up on his particular brand of lunacy over the past few months, Damian wasn’t one to forgive and forget. But the latest arrival had finally been successful in pulling Drake from his research. If possible, the older boy was even more anxious around Hood than Damian was and had risen to stand partway between the computer and Damian’s table, as if to block access to the rest of the Cave.

“Yeah, well, that was a mistake on my part, okay? Should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to keep your nose out of my business,” Todd griped.

“All I asked was—”

“Ah, ah, not again,” Todd interrupted, waving his helmet menacingly. Or rather, menacingly for anyone else. Given the level of menace Todd could achieve when trying, he was practically being cuddly.

The thought struck Damian’s tired brain as funny, but the resulting chuckle made him cough again. Unfortunately, the noise caught Grayson’s attention.

“Damian? What are you still doing up?” Frowning, Grayson turned and leveled his full attention on the presumed responsible party. “Tim? Why hasn’t he finished his homework?”

“Why is this my fault?” Drake demanded. “How is it possibly my fault for the little gremlin being slow?”

Damian let the argument wash over him like the swell of a wave, the offended tones no more than muffled burbles from far away. He didn’t feel well. No, he felt _bad_. Frighteningly, indescribably, insurmountably bad. He had been raised never to show weakness, but his head hurt and his chest hurt and he couldn’t _breathe_.

“I feel ill,” Damian croaked, but his voice was lost beneath the bickering. Only Todd’s head swiveled his way, the one person who arguably would care least but also the only person who would understand what it meant for an al Ghul to admit weakness aloud. Who would know how to use the admission against him.

Damian braced his hands against the table and moved to stand. He felt like a dog after a grueling race—nostrils flaring, chest heaving, mouth open. He blinked, trying to orient himself toward the staircase, but his vision kept blurring and doubling.

“Hey, Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” Todd said. “Hey!”

Damian squinted against the spinning in his head and straightened his back. He was an al Ghul. He was a _Wayne_. He could make it up a silly staircase. But almost as soon as he straightened, that ragged string of twine grated down the length of his throat and gave a hard tug deep in his chest. Damian bent double, hacking and gasping, and a shock of fear shot through him at the thought that he might not be able to stop. But even as he thought it, his own body provided an end as darkness lapped at the corners of his vision.

From somewhere far away, he thought he heard Todd’s rasping voice shout, “Catch the kid catchthekidcatchthekidcatchthe—”

And then the darkness pulled him under.

* * *

If unconsciousness had been a crashing tsunami wave, regaining consciousness was like floating upward in a peaceful lagoon. Damian became aware of things slowly and one at a time as he drifted out of the darkness.

First, Damian was merely aware that he _was_ aware and no longer lost wherever he had been. It was like coming out of the deepest nap, and the flashes from before were part of a bad dream he was already forgetting. Next, the throbbing ache in his head that he remembered from his not-dream was still present, though lessened slightly. But somewhat easing the pain were the fingers running gently through his hair. The touch was feather-soft and slow and for the briefest of moments made him long for his mother. She never touched him this way, but there had been times when he had daydreamed... 

Damian sighed softly. The fingers stilled.

“Dames?”

Grayson, then. He should have known. Damian cracked open one eye, only to immediately recoil as the light stabbed straight into his brain.

“Oh sh—Tim, turn the dimmer,” Grayson called, pitching his voice low to carry. The fingers began running through Damian’s hair again. “Sorry, we’re turning that light down. You probably have a killer headache.”

Damian slowly became aware of a steady beeping in the background and the quiet hiss of... Without opening his eyes, he reached up and felt the oxygen mask around his nose.

“You gave us quite a scare, little bird,” Grayson murmured. “The light’s low now. Can you try to open your eyes and look at me?”

Damian’s forehead and nose wrinkled as he reluctantly tried again. As promised, this time the light was more manageable, and though he had to blink moisture from his eyes, he was soon able to focus on Grayson’s face.

“There are you are.” Grayson smiled softly and once more pushed the hair off of Damian’s forehead. “I need to check on that big brain of yours, kiddo, but I don’t want you to take that mask off. Do you think you can sign for me?”

Signing didn’t come naturally to Damian, but he was pretty sure he could remember what Cass had taught him even through his headache. He nodded, then grimaced at the movement.

“Good.” Grayson twirled one of Damian’s curls gently around his finger as he asked, “What’s your name?”

Damian lifted his hand and finger-spelled D-A-M-I-A-N, then made the quick scooping gesture Cass used for his name sign. That earned him another smile.

“That’s good, Dames. Can you tell me what day it is?”

Damian answered that question and a couple more before dropping his hand to the bed with a thunk.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Grayson agreed. “Glad to see you didn’t cough your head empty.”

It was a bad joke, and Damian rewarded him with an eye roll, but then furrowed his brow at the older man.

_What happened?_

“You had water in your lungs, baby bird. Not sure how that happened, and we’ll be having a discussion about why you didn’t say anything once you’re feeling better,” Grayson warned. “The water caused inflammation, which meant you weren’t getting enough oxygen or getting rid of enough carbon dioxide.”

Grayson reached out with the hand not currently entwined in Damian’s curls and gently tapped the boy’s chest. “That’s why your chest hurt. It did, didn’t it?”

That part he remembered. Damian nodded minutely, then rubbed the spot that Grayson had tapped, once again remembering the awful bone-deep ache.

“The more you tried to breathe, the more irritated your lungs became and the harder it was to get enough air.” Grayson’s hand slid from Damian’s hair to cup the side of his face, the callous on his thumb rubbing against Damian’s cheek like the rasp of a cat’s tongue.

“You passed out, Damian. Freaked Jason out, though he’ll never admit it. Freaked me out for sure. I’m just glad Tim was close enough to catch you before you hit the ground.”

Damian stared at Grayson for a moment, startled, then looked past him to where Drake stood pointedly staring at the computer. He must have heard Grayson or felt Damian’s gaze, because he looked up for a moment and met Damian’s eyes. Damian had expected... an arrogant smirk, perhaps. Or a smug look for having saved Damian from a swoon. But instead, Drake merely nodded, face solemn, then turned back to his work.

His head hurt too much to puzzle out the _why_ now, so Damian turned his attention back to Grayson. He hadn’t noticed before how exhausted the older man looked. Grayson’s normally vibrant eyes were clouded and draped with shadows, and there were lines in his forehead and around his mouth. Was this from being Batman? From losing Father? Or from worrying over Damian?

Damian tilted his head slightly, and Grayson swallowed convulsively.

“You were drowning, Dames,” Grayson whispered. “Drowning in the middle of the Cave and I didn’t even notice. I’m sorry.”

Damian hesitated, training warring with instinct, then lifted his hand and touched his fingers to Grayson’s cheek. 

_It’s not your fault._

Grayson’s eyes shut tightly as he leaned into the touch. For a moment, Damian was afraid Grayson would cry, but thankfully he seemed to remember Damian’s dislike of emotional displays and pulled himself together.

“Jason left while you were out,” Grayson said, then raised his voice slightly to toss over his shoulder, “and Tim should be heading to bed soon.” 

That earned him a rude gesture from the computer area, but Grayson only smiled fondly, then turned the full weight of his attention back to Damian. “You’ll need to stay on oxygen tonight until you’re breathing better on your own. I’ll stay here with you.”

 _Good._ Damian wasn’t a little kid. He wasn’t scared of heights or the dark or monsters under the bed. But to himself he had to admit that the idea of sleeping alone in the Cave did not appeal to him.

Grayson nodded again, matter settled, and set about stripping off the remains of his armor until he was left standing in a thin shirt and compression shorts. A pair of sweatpants flew through the air, smacking the side of his head and making him laugh even as it made Damian jump.

“Thanks, Timbo.” The only reply was the soft click of the lights and Drake’s nearly silent footsteps up the stairs and out into the Manor.

Damian could feel himself about to slip into the arms of sleep, but he frowned when Grayson grabbed the desk chair and pushed it next to the bed. The oxygen mask muffled the scolding _tt_ of his tongue, but Grayson heard it anyways.

“What is it?”

It was for Grayson’s own good, Damian decided. It had been a physical night on patrol and Batman needed to be well-rested. Rest would come little, if at all, to anyone awkwardly curled in such an uncomfortable chair. As Robin, Damian couldn’t allow it.

He reached out his hand, and Grayson, the sentimental fool, took it as Damian knew he would. Damian tugged until Grayson sat on the bed, then he wiggled over to the far side. Grayson hesitated, tired blue eyes searching Damian’s face, but when Damian gave him another pointed tug, he relented.

The two brothers lay huddled together on the narrow cot, one of Grayson’s arms wrapped protectively around Damian and the other cradling the boy’s head.

“Good night, little bird,” Grayson whispered as he pressed his lips to Damian’s temple.

Damian didn’t reply, but there was a small smile beneath his mask as he drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I figure if Damian beats himself up in his head, he likely uses the words his grandfather uses. Unfortunately, Google Translate doesn't appear to know squat about the Arabic language, so I've taken out the word I originally had and just put the English translation. Thanks to the commenters for pointing out the inaccuracy!
> 
> 2) Though the symptoms described here are actually characteristic of secondary drowning (dry drowning is a little different with a much more rapid onset), both dry and secondary drowning are real things. Watch your kiddos and practice pool safety!


End file.
